Civilisation
by Stiggy
Summary: The City Watch is back, and so is suspicious murder in dark alleyways. But this time there's werewolves involved and, worst of all, they're finding clues... Rated T for violence and swearing. Carrot/Angua.
1. A Crime

**Author's Note: Well, it's quite good to be back after almost two years of absence. This first chapter might not be up to scratch because it's my first Discworld fanfiction and the first one in about a year and a half. My life's a bit hectic with exams just now but I'll try to get a new chapter out as frequently as I can, as well. But, you know, enjoy!  
Actually, I should warn you now that there'll be a reasonable amount of Carrot/Angua in this, because they don't get as much time in the books as they deserve. Don't worry though, it's not taking over the plot ;) **

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Discworld. I wish I did, but I don't. Gutted much?

* * *

It was high summer in Ankh-Morpork, and the fires on the notorious river Ankh didn't help the heat, or the tourists who had taken it into their heads that a boat-tour of the city was a good idea (1). They were often seen walking across the river's viscous surface with look of shock on their faces instead of their eyebrows. 

Trolls had resorted to staying inside with their heads in troughs of ice-cold water. In fact, the only trolls who weren't on sick leave, if you could called it that, were the trolls currently employed at the Pork Futures Warehouse, arranging vaguely transparent pig carcasses and taking advantage of the chilly environment. Sergeant Detritus of the City Watch was the exception to this case, as the fans in his helmet helped regulate his brain temperature, but even he was finding that he was a little slow to laugh at the office jokes. Well, slower than usual.

Perhaps among those not entirely enjoying the summer months were the fathers of female dwarfs. Having just accepted that they could never quaff with their newly-discovered daughter on a Friday night (or any other night of the week, actually), these dwarfs now found their daughters wearing what was called a… _summer_ dress. It's wise to remember here that a female dwarf who maintains a beard, albeit a beard with ribbons in it, will not necessarily be bothered about shaving her legs, either. Fortunately for the taller population of Ankh-Morpork, their eyes never easily strayed close enough to the ground to see this, and nobody went out of their way to look, either.

The only place in Ankh-Morpork where summer hadn't taken over, it seemed, was the Shades. You still got a slight shiver in your spine when you crossed the boundary into the Shades, however much you might try and deny it. Women's clothes didn't get any skimpier, because it was harder to get much more revealing clothing with crossing a _major_ line. And the numerous citizens in hooded cloaks still wore what they had worn in winter, because they weren't covering themselves up to keep the cold out.

* * *

On this particularly scorching afternoon, various members of the City Watch had taken refuge in Pseudopolis Yard, because they had opened the door to Igor's laboratory and it was, strangely, _always_ cold down there. The dozen officers there had taken the opportunity to do their paperwork, and were, for the most part, keeping their head down and making traditional workplace conversation without actually looking up at each other. 

There was a noise outside that sounded like a _sploosh!_

"What was the hell was that?" asked Sergeant Colon, jumping in his already worn out chair. That seat had lasted him 'damn near twenty years', and the legs would probably never be the same again, at least not without some serious welding. It was best not to mention the cushion. If you could still call it a cushion.

Simultaneously, both looking up from their paperwork briefly, Angua sniffed the air and Carrot leaned his chair back to peer out of the window. Both sergeant and captain bore the expression of mundane recognition.

"River's caught fire again," they said together, and returned to their reports.

"Third time this week," remarked Nobby Nobbs from his desk, which was further away from the other officers but much closer to the petty cash tin. He was the only one not doing paperwork, instead counting pennies on his desk, to make sure they came to under four dollars. "And it's only Tuesday."

Murmurs of agreement spread throughout the room, then there was silence for a few, blissfully cool, minutes.

"How do you spell dat word?" asked Detritus finally, after having been observed to struggle over his report for a significant while.

Several chewed pencils lay scattered on the floor as a result, leads and erasers littering the office. Troll teeth are diamond, so when they chew a pencil, they don't just make an indent.

"What word, sergeant?" asked Carrot, whose grasp of spelling was not much better than Detritus'.

"Got."

While Carrot explained, Angua sniffed the air again. "Commander's coming. I can smell the cigar smoke from here."

There was a clatter in the direction of Nobby's desk as he hurriedly attempted to replace the extra 21 pence he'd stolen from the big red tin in the corner.

The door swung open, and Vimes entered, up to his knees in what could only be described as thick, muddy water with a smell of rotting fish. He was carrying his sandals in his hand and one of his eyebrows had been singed off.

"Bloody tourists and their boat tours," he growled. "Carrot, don't you _dare_ salute."

"Yessir!" The captain returned to his paperwork for a few moments, then came to an obvious decision and put his pencil down, continuing to look at Vimes.

"You were near the fire then, sir?"

"_Near _it? I was bloody in it! What was I supposed to do when the boat overturned and smashed into little pieces on the surface? Stand there?"

"Good point, sir."

Vimes threw his sandals into his own office and made a noise which didn't only suggest, but screamed that he wasn't happy. "I'm  
going to take a shower."

He exited the room, but came back in because he'd sensed something.

"Someone's going to tell me why I can't take a shower, aren't they?" he glared accusingly at the room. There were a few moments of silcence before Nobby drew the mental short straw and was elected to speak.

"Well, because it's hot and the city can only buy in so much water-"

"-and the Patrician knows that if everyone's left to use as much water as they want there'll be none left-"

"-he says that no-one's to use more than allocated for their home or workplace-"

"-and Constable Bluejohn was very, very hot in the head this morning before we sent him home-"

"-we might have used quite a lot of ours cooling him down."

It was hard not to notice that the commander was breathing heavily.

"How much water," he began, very slowly, as certain officers' noses became dangerously close to their paperwork, "do we have left for today?"

Silence.

"_abouthalfaglass_," said Colon.

"What?"

Angua took over from Colon, whose face had grown even redder than its usual crimson. "About half a glass. Sorry, Commander."  
He looked at her, and then at the room in general.

"I'm not waiting until tomorrow to get this sticky stuff off me," he announced, and then added inwardly, how can water be _sticky_, anyway?

He left.

There was another _sploosh!_

"The river?" ventured Constable Ping. Angua shook her head.

"Thorry," called Igor from his laboratory. "The fingerth are giving me trouble again. Ith just-"

Angua shut the door with her foot. "I don't care _how_ hot it is, I'm not putting up with _that_."

* * *

Some time later, darkness fell. Not the summery-dusk kind of darkness, the _real_ kind of darkness: the stuff so thick you could almost cut through it. It's inevitable that bad things happen on nights like this. It gets even more inevitable as you gravitate towards the Shades. 

Gerald Sock was a postman, letter clutched in hand, with an intent to deliver. He had no deliveries in the Shades, save one. He walked briskly in the hope that it would deter any potential danger. If anything, it _encouraged_ it. Walking briskly shows a lack of confidence, vulnerability. The best thing to do would have been to walk like he had all the time in world†, but unfortunately he didn't have much time left at all.

As he reached the alleyway, the growling began.

* * *

Vimes had taken a bath, and read to Young Sam. He had since taken _another_ bath, after his son had wrinkled up his nose during the reading of the picture book. Naturally, because he was a toddler, Young Sam had only done this _after_ the cow had been found. 

He put his uniform back on, because the suit that Willikins had laid out for him would be ruined where he was going. And, well, it was a _suit_ and Vimes much preferred the uniform. It was like an old friend, older than his own son. There were probably parts of it older than him, actually. Little scraps of metal here and there. The only thing he didn't put back on were his sandals, partly because they were still in his office (he'd walked home barefoot rather than re-enter the Watch House after a good storm-out) and partly because he didn't want to get his toes scorched off when he could have been wearing boots.

When he reached the dragon pen where Sybil was working, Vimes found her separating two scrapping dragons, squealing and snapping at each other.

"Sam! Just when I needed you," she beamed at him while a dragon writhed in each gloved hand, fighting against her grip. "Hold up that box for me, would you?"  
Vimes stared around the pen. "What box?"

Sybil followed his gaze. "Oh. Bingle's sleeping on it. Give him a little nudge with your boot; you won't do him any harm."

With the caution of a man who's been told no harm can possibly come about as a result of his actions, Vimes gave the dragon the tiniest of kicks. Bingle rolled off the box and snorted in his sleep. A puff of smoke escaped each scaly nostril.

Vimes picked up the box and opened the flap in the side as instructed by Sybil. She rammed the biggest dragon inside it, snapping the door shut. The box rocked from side to side angrily in Vimes' arms.

"Won't he just flame his way out of there?"

"Yes, but it'll take him a few minutes, the silly little bugger."

Setting the smallest dragon back down and simultaneously taking the box from her husband's arms, Sybil tramped towards a much bigger pen, with freshly laid newspapers and an appetizing bundle of coal and placed the violently shaking box in the centre.

"Silly little bugger," she repeated again, shaking her head. "It's the heat, see. I'm sure I explained it all before. And the dogs' howling doesn't to them much good either. It sets the little ones off; they're always trying to be dogs for some reason. Don't do that, please, Sam."

Vimes had picked up a handy baby dragon and was rubbing it under the chin, with a cigar near to its mouth. It chirped happily and a blue flame shot out.

"Sorry, dear."

There was a pause while the couple listened to the howling, with occasional attempts to join in from the younger hatchlings.

"What is the _matter_ with those dogs?" asked Sybil. "It's not even full moon. They're always a bit excitable around full moon."

Vimes frowned. Dogs were sensitive to sinister goings-on. If you were patrolling late at night and the strays seemed shifty, you always knew to draw your sword before turning the next corner. "Sounds like the Shades."

Sybil looked up at the moon. "Whatever it is, it sounds like trouble."

* * *

"Can you understand what they're saying?" 

"I could if I wanted to, Carrot, but the howl that the dogs have developed isn't like the wolf one. It's full of information on where to find the best meat scraps in town."

"I suppose Gaspode introduced it back here, after he returned from Uberwald."

Angua considered this. "Perhaps."

The pair turned the corner of Elm Street. The duty of patrolling near the Shades seemed to fall to Angua and Carrot more than any other team, probably because there wasn't anything much in the Shades that could kill Angua and nothing much that would even attempt to kill Carrot.

"They seem very agitated-"

"Probably because the Assassin's Guild has stopped doing black pudding!" Angua listened for a mere second before continuing. "They are, as well! Talking about blood!"

Suddenly she stopped, paying attention to the noise of the dogs. Carrot knew better than to interrupt her while she was investigating, as it were, so he remained silent until she spoke again.

"I'm going to have to Change," she said, unbuckling her armour, "there's been an attack, further into the Shades, I think."

"Do you think it's serious?"

"No, I _know_ it's serious," Angua said, while unbuckling her armour. "Close your eyes. And pick up my uniform when I'm done, I'll need it back later."

Moments later, there was a growl and Carrot re-opened his eyes, following Angua's shape into an alleyway with his sword drawn.

In this shape, a brown-red mist filled Angua's vision, getting thicker as she came closer to the source of the smell. She could practically smell the blood loss, and it didn't look good for whoever had been attacked. Her pace quickened to a run.

And then she stopped, because there was another smell in the air apart from the stench of blood. Werewolf.

Of course she'd known that there were other werewolves in Ankh-Morpork. She was on first-name terms with a few of them, even. But to smell one in these circumstances? Not that she liked jumping to conclusions, but it was hard to avoid it here.

So, the werewolf was… male, by the smell of it. Very large too, but male werewolves usually were. And he'd probably have a coat as black as coal. The big ones generally did, if only because of stereotype. He was angry, too. The faint wispy trail of his movements lay in front of Angua now, side by side with the smell left by the blood.

Behind her, Carrot opened his mouth to speak, but she continued on her path before he had the chance to say anything.

Something in the alleyway… gurgled. It was a pathetic sound, like a cry underwater. It wasn't a healthy sound, either. Angua had heard it before.

Carrot sheathed his sword and ran towards the wounded man in the alleyway.

"Sir?" he kneeled down beside him, and although it was barely noticeable, Angua saw him hold back a retch.

There was another gurgle.

_Oh gods…_

He'd had his jugular vein ripped out, along with most of his neck. His head would have flopped forwards had it not been propped against a stack of crates. Blood gushed down his clothes with every feeble breath he took.

_Werewolf…_

Angua had never done it herself, but she recognised the trick when done. She had seen it almost daily back in Uberwald, but seeing it here, in Ankh-Morpork… It shocked her, she supposed. Things like that… well, they weren't meant to happen here, back in civilisation.

Carrot touched the man's wrist gently and then slumped against the wall, his face hidden by the gloom. "Out of his misery, now."  
He shut his eyes and ran his hands over his face, through his hair. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Angua Changed and pulled on her uniform quickly.

"It was a werewolf. I could smell it."

There was the slightest tilt of the head from Carrot, an indication of understanding. "Thought so. Couldn't have been an Assassin or a vampire, it's too messy. Couldn't have been a troll or a dwarf, it's too neat. Couldn't have been a Thief, because if they do accidentally kill someone it's not like that. Couldn't have been…"

"…anything but a werewolf," said Angua, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "What's the matter with you? You've seen someone die before, haven't you?"

They both glanced at the corpse. "Yes, but… no-one deserves to die like that."

"I know, Carrot. But he did. So how are we going to solve this one?"

That worked. Carrot solved things. Sometimes he created problems in doing so, but then he could solve that problem, too. Especially if it involved organisation.

"Well, for one thing, we can't properly investigate this until it's light. We'll need to get Constable Shoe in with the iconograph box to take some pictures of the scene before we start moving things. And we'll definitely need to get Commander Vimes. He's going to want to see this."

* * *

(1) Many tourists, after being promised a luxurious, spacious boat, arrived at the meeting point to find a withered, yellow (2) dingy with 'C.M.O.T. Dibbler Tour Company' painted on the side. 

(2) This is a common businessman trick- paint it bright yellow, and everyone'll think it's brand new.

†Actually, the best thing to do would be to stay inside with the doors locked and the blinds closed, but on nights such as this the thought didn't occur to sensible people like postmen.

* * *

**Author's Note: First chapter is up! Forgive me if the formatting's gone funny, it's been a while. I can always fix it because it's only the first chapter, anyway. Right chaps, review if you're nice. Or just review for the hell of it, I don't really mind.**


	2. A Clue

**Author's Note: Here's the second chapter. Sorry it took a while, but the exams are finished (for now) so I should be able to update more frequently now. The next chapter's shaping up nicely now :). The genre's been changed, you might have noticed, to Crime/Drama, because it's a lot more relevant. Anyway, enjoy.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Discworld, any of its characters, plots or settings. I'm only borrowing them for a bit.**

* * *

The sun rose, and the heat of the day quickly settled into every available space in the room, light twinkling on the surfaces of the rows of metal instruments. In the far left corner of the room, a man was seated at a desk, in a white coat with a number of brightly coloured stains all over it for a design. Every so often, a piece of metal would clatter to the floor, ringing loudly in the otherwise silent surroundings, and he would sigh before bending down to pick it up. 

He missed the Guild, and he missed explosions. He didn't like these… _people_, or what they were doing. Or, to be exact, what they were making _him_ do.

And he was getting extremely tired of silver.

* * *

"What're we going to do with all these letters, sarge?" 

Corporal Nobby Nobbs nudged the deceased postman's purple bag with his sandal. The two officers were in Treacle Mine Road Watch House, retreating from the heat and watching the bag of letters between them as if it would explode at any moment (1).

"Take 'em back to the Post Office, Nobby. It's not as if _we_ can deliver them," Fred Colon scratched his head.

"Why not, sarge?" Nobby hoisted the bag onto his desk and began to sift through the top of it while Colon replied.

"Because we're not postmen, of course… Nobby, what the hell're you doing?"

"Looking to see if I've got any letters, sarge. I mean, how else am I going to find out, if no-one's delivering them?"

"But there's all different routes! He probably doesn't… _didn't_ deliver to your lodgings, corporal!" Colon protested while letters spilled out onto the floor.

"He did. He was my postman, y'know. Nice bloke," Nobby said casually, and pulled out an envelope from the top of the bag, a look of triumph on his face.

"Why didn't you say so?"

"Didn't think it was important, sarge. Lots of watchmen have postmen."

"Just so happens that yours had his throat ripped out, right?" Colon sighed.

"Right," said Nobby happily, and tucked the letter into his breastplate. "Do you think we should take these down to the Post Office, so's someone else can deliver them?"

"Capital thinking, Nobby. A nice walk in the sunshine, it'll do us good," he hefted the bag over his shoulder, and then set it down. "It's bloody heavy!"

"Course it is, sarge, it's full of letters."

Nobby attempted to lift the bag, and, having arms like hairy matchsticks, he failed miserably. "Strange," he said, twisting his mouth halfway up his left cheek in a way that Colon had come to recognise. It meant that, in a rare moment of genius, Nobby was about to discover something.

"What's strange?"

"Well, he was near the end of his route, wasn't he? Shouldn't have had _that_ many letters, really."

"So why's his bag so heavy?" Colon was now intrigued. They were _detectoring_.

Nobby didn't reply, but plunged one of his arms into the bottom of the postbag, sustaining multiple papercuts in the process and knocking out dozens of letters. A dull _ping_ was muffled by the paper. Using all the strength available in his skinny arms, Nobby heaved a shiny object from amongst the letters.

It was a candlestick.

"It's silver," said Nobby, who could value the object of an item within five seconds and nick it within the next three.

"Bloody hell, Nobby," said Colon gloomily.

"You know what this means, sarge?" Nobby set the candlestick down. It went _clunk_, ominously.

"Yes, corporal. We have found a Clue."

* * *

There was a series of thumps and a yelp from through the wall, and the man jerked in surprise, his elbow sending a box of nails clattering to the floor. For a few seconds, he did not breathe, as if waiting for punishment. When met with silence, he knelt down on the dusty floor with the empty box in his hands, gathering up the pieces of metal (2). 

One nail rolled for several metres, travelling almost the full length of the room, and came to a stop against a shoe. The faint _clink_ it made on impact seemed to fill the world.

The shoe was an exquisitely-made loafer, with leather so new that you could still smell the price. The man focused his gaze on the shoe, because he'd rather not look at the owner.

_They've decided to try civilisation, have they?_ said a voice in the back of his head, a voice that he was too overwhelmed with dread to hear.

"You tried to warn him, didn't you?" the voice came from above his head, smoother than the edge of a knife, and twice as threatening.

The man said nothing, and moved to pick up the nail. The finely-crafted loafer came crashing down upon his fingers with incredible strength, crushing his bones into the wooden floor and kicking up the dust that had settled there over the months. Resisting the urge to cry out, the man nodded.

"Yes, I did."

The foot pressed down harder, the blinding white of pain flashing in the man's vision.

"And why did you do this?" That voice… you wanted to tell everything to it, and you wanted it to listen. You wanted, somehow, to be acknowledged. This voice had _power_. It had glamour, too. But the thing about glamour is this- if you scrape away the gold, you'll get to see the rusty metal underneath. Most people didn't get the chance to find that out, when it came to this voice.

"Because he's my brother! He has nothing to do with this! He's a postman!"

The man felt the pressure on his hand lift, and relief flooded through his system. But then he heard the chuckle from above.

"I thought you were an educated man, Jonas," said the room's other occupant. "Surely you wouldn't make such a severe grammatical error?"

Jonas froze, his crushed finger wrapped around the nail. The other man continued.

"He is not a postman. He _was_ a postman."

Realization dawned.

"You killed him."

"You were warned."

"_You killed him_."His other hand gripped the nail, hatred and anger and sorrow overcoming fear. "You killed my brother, you bastard!"

The man laughed mirthlessly. "First of all, your brother died because of your mistakes, not mine. Secondly, I was not the one who killed him, so plunging that nail into my leg will not avenge his death in any way and will only serve to cause you more grief. Always remember, Jonas, that you have _other_ loved ones."

The threat hung in the hair for a few seconds before Jonas relaxed his grip on the nail and placed it back in the box.

"Good man," said the voice, as if the moment of tension had not occurred. "Tomorrow you will collect the materials you require for your studies. Gold will be provided, of course. And you will not be unaccompanied this time."

"Yes," said Jonas hoarsely, his emotions and thoughts shutting down in shock.

"Good man," the man repeated, but this time the tone implied 'Good dog'. "Back to work."

He left, leaving Jonas alone with the metal and clutching his hand.

A few minutes later, there was a crash as a box of nails hit the wall.

* * *

Vimes passed the candlestick from hand to hand while Colon and Nobby watched him cautiously. 

"Pretty heavy, this," he noted, after a period of observation. "You could do a lot of damage with this."

He motioned hitting someone across the head with the candlestick.

"Self defence, sir?" asked Colon.

"That is the most likely circumstance, yes," Vimes placed the candlestick on the desk and looked at it broodingly, before a thought struck him. "How do we know that Sock was definitely the victim?"

There was few a moment of hesitation, he noticed, before Nobby spoke up.

"Because, well, he was lyin' in the alleyway with his throat ripped out, sir?"

_Werewolves,_ thought Vimes. _Bloody werewolves. We've had trouble from dwarves, trolls, and most of the time it's humans causing crime around here. We don't need the undead to start making trouble too. Because dwarves have their sacred rituals and trolls let off fireworks and eat them, and that's pretty harmless culture, most of the time, unless one troll can't stomach his snack, but werewolves… that's different. Because __**their**__ tradition is ripping throats out…_

"No. What I mean is, was this entirely unprovoked?" Vimes rubbed his face with his hands. "Or did Sock aggravate a werewolf and give him the chance to exercise his ethnic traditions? He must have done something; he must have known that he was at risk. We all know he wasn't delivering that candlestick. Who told him? That's what I want to know."

Clues. Clues made everything more complicated. They'd help catch the man whodunit, that's for sure, but they led you up and down the garden path when all you'd needed to do in the first place was to rip up the flowerbeds. Clues were evidence, usually, but Vimes always found that a well-placed Carrot could always be persuaded into getting a confession, because he had a knack for that kind of thing. Treat people nice, even if you were aware of the fact that they were blood-thirsty bastards.

Vimes realised that Colon and Nobby were still staring at him.

"Corporal, sergeant, I want you to take these letters back to the Post Office. And while you're there, explain that Mr Sock will not be returning to work."

"On account of missing a throat, sir?" Nobby suggested.

"Yes, Nobby. On account of missing a throat."

As Colon and Nobby left, Carrot entered with his helmet under his arm. Vimes noticed that his hair was unusually tussled, as if he'd been running his hands through it.

"Did you tell the man's family, captain?"

"No, sir," Carrot said, and paused before realising that some explanation was owed. "Sock wasn't married, had no children, and his parents are both deceased. The only family he had was his brother in the Alchemist's Guild, but when I went up there they told me he'd left several weeks ago, sir."

"Did he leave suspiciously?" Vimes sat down and twirled the candlestick between his hands, focusing on the glint on metal.

"Not as far as I can tell, sir. He left for Sto Lat; apparently alchemists there are in high demand, sir. What's that?"

"It is a silver candlestick, captain. Found on our dead postman."

"Oh," said Carrot, immediately understanding the situation. "A Clue?"

"Yes. A Clue."

Vimes had observed how everyone seemed to have mastered pronouncing the capital 'C'. His attitude towards clues wasn't exclusive- Carrot, Angua and other senior officers treated them with the same caution he did, if not more.

"Angua's following the werewolf's trail, sir."

"Shouldn't you be with her? For safety reasons?"

An awkward look crossed Carrot's face. "She… advised against my accompanying her, sir."

"She wouldn't let you come with her?"

"Not exactly, sir. She said something about interfering with the trail as little as possible. Anyway, I'm sure she's perfectly capable of looking after herself. It is _Angua_ we're talking about here."

"Ah. Point taken. Has Sergeant Littlebottom found anything else?"

"No, sir. I think she's a little intimidated, sir."

Vimes' memory searched through the various attributes of Cheery Littlebottom. "She's terrified of werewolves, isn't she? Apart from Angua, obviously."

"Yes, sir. Angua should be back soon anyway. Then we'll have a better idea of what we're dealing with here."

"We _know_ what we're dealing with, captain, we're dealing with a werewolf. All I want to know is _who _we're dealing with."

* * *

Meanwhile, Angua had a headache. 

The werewolf's trail had lead into the spice market. Obviously, this one knew what he was doing.

She had followed the trail no problem up until now- he hadn't even tried to disguise his smell, and he had been running, which made his smell even more prominent.

But now, her nostrils were filled with the smell of Klatchian herbs and there were, so far, eighty different trails that she could be following. And if she picked any trail but the right one and pursued, news would get around that the Watch's werewolf had been stalking innocents. Then the trouble would really start.

Some of the stall-traders, because they were always the ones to hear the word on the street and had obviously heard about the murder, were already giving her wary looks as they haggled. Thank gods that everyone suspected Nobby was the werewolf instead of her. True, it was unfortunate for him, but the corporal had never really cared what anyone thought of him. Or, rather, he was completely oblivious to the fact that people still raised their eyebrows on hearing that he actually was human.

_Rather him than me_, Angua thought as she trotted through the market, feeling slightly ill from the odour. _Dog eat dog and all that._ She immediately scolded herself for that remark.

People moved out of her way. It had always been like this, even if she wasn't patrolling with Carrot. People moved for Angua in both forms, but if anyone found out… well, she probably wouldn't be able to go where she pleased as freely as she was used to.

After clearing the spice market and leaving the nauseating smells behind, Angua cut through an alleyway. She'd have to take the long route back to avoid the spice market. However, it definitely wasn't the most pleasant of journeys. Broken bottles and general spiky, harmful things lay scattered all over the concrete ground. Dried blood from years ago still caused her Angua to turn her head and sniff the air.

It was still baking hot, and this coat wasn't helping. Maybe she could Change, but her nearest stash of clothes was further away than the Watch House was, so there was no point, really…

"You ever think about him?" growled a voice from the shadows. Angua turned, hackles raised. It was the werewolf she'd been looking for, unmistakeably. She had the nasal equivalent of a photographic memory.

"Who?" she replied, watching him carefully. In wolf form, he was twice her size. Maybe more. She couldn't completely see him as his black coat merged with the shadows of the alley.

"Wolfgang."

Angua snarled. "No. What's your name?"

"You do," the werewolf ignored her question and continued. "He was a good mate of mine. We had… similar hobbies."

"Ripping throats out?"

"Well done, sergeant!"

"How do you know who I am?" Angua stepped forward, if only by an inch. Was that a smile, or was he baring his teeth?

"Lot of people know who you are. Lots of Wolfgang's friends. They're not happy with you."

"The feeling is mutual. You're coming with me now."

"I don't think I am." He flicked his tail and sat down, an air of male arrogance radiating from him. "I'm only here to deliver a message to the Watch."

Angua rolled her lips back and bared her teeth. "A message? From who?"

Yet again, he ignored her question. "The message is: the postman was a one-off. Leave it, and you, or anyone else, won't see anymore trouble."

"How could you think we would agree to that? That's not how things are done! We can't let you off because you say you won't do it again! You've already done it! You murdered someone, and we have to arrest you. We're the _Watch!_"

"_We have to arrest you. We're the Watch_!" mimicked the werewolf, getting up and padding towards her so that he was only a few metres away. "I don't see any handcuffs on you. How are you going to arrest me?"  
_  
He's taunting me,_ thought Angua's human side. _He's trying to get me to fight him, and he'll win. Well, I'm not falling for that._

However, Angua's wolf side, which was rather stronger at the moment, said:

_Jump._

* * *

Jonas tried to shut out every thought while he gathered up the nails, which was the only work he could do with a broken hand, but eventually the grief and guilt wormed their way in. 

_He's dead because of me._

_I killed one of them, so they balanced it out the only way they know how._

_It was an accident!_

_Wasn't it?_

He didn't even know himself, really. There was always going to be a casualty, combining werewolves and silver like this, and they were attempting to change the laws of… well, he wasn't quite sure that it was a law, but it was a general characteristic of werewolves that they were most definitely going back on. It wasn't his fault there had been an accident. He'd only been doing what he'd been ordered to do.

And then his hand had slipped, and his brother had died.

How many more times would this happen before they were done with him? And what would happen when they _were_ done with him? Jonas didn't want to think about that.

He didn't really want to think about any of this.

* * *

The bigger werewolf caught Angua's front leg and hurled her into the wall before she even had a chance to touch him. Dazed by the collision, she snapped out and bit into the closest body part within reach, which happened to be his tail. He half-yelped, half-snarled and pinned her down on one of the broken bottles with one giant paw. Spots danced in her vision as the glass cut into her hind legs and her back. 

"You had your chance." Blood and drool dripped onto Angua's coat from above. "Next filthy little human we get, it's on your head."

He stalked away, disappearing into the shadows of the alleyway. She clambered to her feet shakily, a shard of glass still protruding from her left hind leg, and limped after his trail. It hung in the air, light green and menacing. There was no point in going after him, not after what he'd just done to her with no apparent effort.

Angua was acutely aware of the fact that her wolf side was telling her to fall over, whine and hobble off into a corner to lick her wounds.

_I'm not listening to you_, thought her human side. _Look at the mess you've got me into now._

* * *

(1) Of course, this would only happen if the letter had been sent by Leonard of Quirm. It was lucky that Leonard didn't send any letters at all, because if he did, the Post Office would probably have more casualties than the Assassins' Guild during competitive examination periods. 

(2) Vitally needed objects always roll under the heaviest piece of furniture. This is a fact of life, and this annoyance is particularly common on the Discworld, where the god Cunnisi, God of Things That Roll Under Chairs, has now expanded his repertoire to include Cabinets and Skirts.

* * *

**End Of Chapter  
Hope you found that bearable. Jonas will be explained in the next chapter, by the way. Read and review, people!**


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